


Touches

by Rooscha



Series: Fumbling Through & Making Do [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Headspace, Light BDSM, Love, M/M, Miscommunication, Relationship(s), Rope Bondage, Rutting, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Submission, Touching, transfluid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6312508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rooscha/pseuds/Rooscha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet and Drift have the first major miscommunication of their relationship. Drift just wants to know why Ratchet won't touch him. So Ratchet decides to take matters into his own hands and remind Drift that he is loved by tying him up and teasing him into oblivion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The miscommunication

Ratchet wasn't really a bot for cuddling. He wasn't even really one for touching outside of a few casual shoulder touches or making love. Drift often found himself subtly pushed away by the older mech, nothing overt, but his field made it clear that touching wasn't always welcome. For Drift, touch was a learned skill.

As Deadlock, the only time he was touching a mech was when he was beating them or killing them. Any other touches were limited to his spike and his hands, and only when he was actively fucking another mech or femme. Vorns with the Autobots and Rodimus in particular had dulled his rough edges. Given how much Rodimus liked to touch, Drift had to get used to his personal space being invaded on a daily basis.

In contrast, Ratchet always left at least an arms length between them whenever they were together. I didn't matter if they were in a meeting or in their own quarters watching a movie. Whenever Drift would try and cuddle a little closer to the medic, the elder mech would excuse himself to get a cube or a datapad.

Tonight, Drift had a plan to get Ratchet to touch him. It wasn't the most clever plan, but it was one that would work on the medic. It was also manipulative, which made the white speedster a little uncomfortable, but the ends justified the means. He and Ratchet both needed to get over the damages that led them to this point in their lives. For Drift, the damages were obviously from his vorns spent in the Decepticons and living life as a syk user in Dead End. Ratchet was a mystery. He had lived his life as an Autobot, in and out of Iacon and Crystal City and the like. Autobots, as a general rule, were much more touchy-feely than the Decepticons.

* * *

"Ratchet, can you help me?" Drift's voice floated from the washrack, reaching Ratchet in the study. Instead of answering, Ratchet simply closed out his datapad of patient files and lumbered to his pedes with a groan. Whenever Drift called for 'help' in the washrack, it usually ended in an interface. There was something stunning about washing the other mech's sleek white plating, being able to run his hands over the speedster without Drift cringing away from his touch.

The medic took a moment to stretch out after sitting at his desk for several joor. His lines didn't stretch out like they used to, and the youngster in his washrack gave him quite a workout on a near daily basis. Maybe tonight Ratchet could convince the other mech to ride his spike and give his back a break. He might not be as old as he liked to let on, but he was still old enough - and on his pedes enough - that some of his age was starting to catch up to him. Groaning to himself for a moment, Ratchet began the short walk to his private washrack.

Being CMO had a few perks in between being awake for orns on end, and one of them was the expansive washrack and study he had just left. His washrack was spacious, done up in white and red, much like himself. Rodimus had insisted that the Lost Light be done up in colors he approved of, and Rodimus loved red and white. No wonder the mech had gone after Drift so aggressively. The mech in question was bent at the waist, hands flat on the washrack floor, wiggling his aft suggestively. When Ratchet's pedefalls echoed through the chamber, Drift straightened up slowly, twisting at the waist. It seemed as though both mecha were suffering from their cables being too tight.

"Heya, Ratch. I have some back pain that I'm hoping you can help me work out. I think I over did it sparring with Ultra Magnus this morning. He tried to throw me and I fought it too hard instead of just going with it and landing properly." Drift reached out and turned off the solvent, dashing Ratchet's hopes of fragging the white mech under the spray. The elder mech may be sore too, but that view made him think that he could easily pin the other mech against the wall and ravish him faceplate first into the wall for a few joor. But Drift was sending him signals that he was actually in pain and in need of his care. Physician, heal thy patient. Heal thy mate. And so he would.

"Get on the berth," Ratchet ordered, pointing one finger towards the master berthroom, "And make sure you're at least mostly dry. I don't want to find solvent dribbles on the slab when I get in there." Drift mock saluted him before sauntering past him to grab a large chamois from the heated cupboard and gliding into the berthroom. Ratchet went the opposite direction, walking back towards the entrance of the suite and picking up his emergency medical kit that lived by the front door. His subspace could hold quite a lot of things, but there was no substitute for the whole pack when he needed it.

Ratchet's optics brightened when his optics landed on the newly installed sword display sheaths beside the door. Drift had installed them only a few decaorn prior, signaling to both mecha that he was here to stay. The massive Great Sword was holstered for the night cycle, and gleamed proudly in the soft lighting. Ratchet ran a gentle hand over the hilt, silently thanking whoever was listening that the younger mech trusted him to this extent. When Ratchet returned to the berth room, Drift was laid out on the recharge slab, faceplate pressed into the soft cushioning.

The medic laid out his pack on a seat next to the berth, pulling a full items out and placing them on the small breakfast table between the chairs. He drug the table to rest next to Drift's helm, so that all the items were within easy reach. With a slight grunt, Ratchet slung his legs over the lithe mech and surrendered some of his weight onto Drift. The medic then began a visual and tactile examination of the mech under his hands. The tension of the cables in his back was a little tight, but it was nothing especially egregious, especially given that Drift spent a fair amount of time sparring and living the active life of a warrior.

"Where, specifically, is the pain located?" Ratchet asked, running his hands lightly over a few node clusters which were overheated, using the natural coolness of his hands to soothe the hot metals. Drift's helms turned slightly, blue optics meeting, before he spoke.

"Lower back, right hip area. Which is a little strange, because I hit the ground on my left hip. I would have thought that the pain would be more centered on the hip where I hit." The white mech sunk a little further into the padding of the berth, and reached a hand back to run his hand along the portion of his back where the pain was located. Ratchet was straddling him very close to the area, and the backs of his fingers glided over a portion of Ratchet's thigh plating.

"I see it. Let's see what we can do about this. I think we might be able to get this out just by a massage. Are you okay with that? It might hurt a bit as the cables are manually stretched. If you don't want to, this will probably work its way out with some stretching. You might be able to get this out if you concentrate on it during your meditation session tomorrow."

"It's fine, go ahead," Drift flared out the armor on his backplating, giving the medic a little more room to work. "I like having your hands on me." Ratchet hesitated for a brief moment, before reaching over to the table and grabbing a bottle.

"This is just a heating gel. It'll help loosen the cables so I can pull them out easier. There is a slight chance that you could have a dermal reaction, but it's not likely. And even if it happens, just let me know and we can treat." Under him, Drift nodded, shifting into a slightly more comfortable position.

"Go for it, Ratch. I love your touch on my plating." Again, Ratchet paused before allowing his hands to just barely skim the armor on the white mech's plating. When Drift didn't outwardly react, the elder mech gently slipped a hand under the armor and began coating the tense cables with heating gel. While the gel worked on heating the affected area, Ratchet pulled his hands off the mech under him and grabbed a cleaning cloth out of his subspace before taking almost a breem to clean the delicate mechanisms within his hands.

Now that he had new hands, he was damned if he was going to let anything wear them out. Drift sighed below him, before pressing his faceplate into the berth with a mumble. "Hmm? Sorry, these audios don't work the way they used to. Can you repeat that?" Ratchet asked, leaning down to bring his faceplate closer to Drift's. Instead of answering, the white mech just shook his helm and pressed even further into the berth. Ratchet, being used to moody mechanisms, just shook his own helm and got to work manipulating the cabling under his palms.

Under his ministrations, Drift began to relax. Ratchet smiled as the white speedster slowly turned into a loose puddle of happy mech, grunting and groaning in pleasure at the work of his hands. For his part, Ratchet was just happy to help the white mech, who was usually wound a little too tight for his own good. When the mech below him was happy and relaxed, including his cabling, Ratchet patted him on the shoulder and gently extricated himself from the berth before turning and heading into the washrack to shower off.

While the solvent was warming, Ratchet repacked his medical kit and replaced it its place beside the door, once again patting the Great Sword. He drew himself and Drift a cube of high grade, throwing it in the heater for enjoyment later in the night cycle. Maybe after Drift rode his spike. Ratchet smiled to himself as he walked back to the washrack, more content than he could remember being since his days in the Academy, long before the pressures and responsibilities of the war rested on his shoulders. He could make a family with this mech, and it really was nice to have someone who cared about him waiting for him to come home at night. It was everything he didn't know he needed and now craved. The solvent was hot enough to steam the mirror in the rack, and he jumped right in, hoping to wash quickly and get back to the hot piece of aft in his berth.

"Why don't you like touching me outside of the berth?" Drift's voice startled him so badly that Ratchet lost his footing for a moment on the slick tiles of the floor. He caught himself on the doorframe, bracing his considerable bulk against the wall. Damn ninja.

"What are you talking about?" Ratchet snarled, embarrassed about being caught off guard. "I have no problems touching you. I touch you."

"That's slag and you know it!" Drift's plating was raised off his form, making him look bigger and more threatening than he actually was. At that moment, Ratchet realized just how intimidating Deadlock must have been when he was angry. "You only touch me when we frag. You can barely stand to touch me when we're just in the same area. I'm not just some frag toy, Ratch! All the other mechs on this ship touch each other platonically, but you can't stand to touch me. Why? Am I not good enough somehow?"

Ratchet stared blankly at the mech he loved. In some ways, it was like he was actually seeing Drift for the first time. The incredibly broken, damaged mechanism before him was actually questioning his worth in their relationship. Even after everything they had been through. The medic turned off the solvent, allowing the silence to permeate the room. He needed a moment to gather his thoughts and Drift needed a few moments to gather himself. He looked like he was on the verge of a meltdown, and the last thing they needed was to have a screaming fight in their quarters. Rodimus and Magnus lived right across the hall, and Ratchet wouldn't put it past the Captain to break in and join in the fight.

"Alright. Let's say for a moment I have a problem touching you platonically. Why does it bother you so much?" Ratchet asked, moving past the swordsmecha to grab his own chamois and began drying his plating.

"Because I want you to be proud of me. I want you to show everyone that I belong to you. And from what I've seen, casual touches do that more than anything else." Drift answered, still taking in too much air, trying to cool his overheating systems. He was much too worked up about this.

"I am always proud of you, and you always belong to me. Just as I belong to you. Do you touch me in public?" Ratchet asked, running a hand over the foggy mirror to clear a patch. Over the vorns, he'd learned that Drift did not do well when directly confronted. It was always best to go about his business like normal, and keep his calm.

"...No. But I don't need to." Drift said after a few moment's pause. His optics met Ratchet's in the mirror reflection, and Ratchet grinned at him slightly.

"And why is that?" Ratchet asked quietly, pulling out a small canister of polish and working on his faceplating.   

'Because I don't need to touch you to let everyone know that I love you and that you belong to me." Drift said, visibly deflating. The flaky spiritualist was not a dumb mech. All Ratchet had to do was let him come to his own conclusion and he would calm himself down pretty well.

"That's right. I will always touch you in private. If you want me to touch you in public more, I can. I always assumed that you didn't like it. You seem to recoil from me when I try. Why is that?" Ratchet asked casually, buffing his faceplate for a moment or two, making sure that he looked at least presentable.

"Because I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"Come here," Ratchet growled low in his throat, optics darkening, turning and opening his arms to his mate. "I want to touch you right now, and the touches I want to give you probably won't be acceptable in public."


	2. Being Okay

Drift's frame was scalding under his fingers, the delicate mechanisms and sensors within them letting the medic know that his mate was on the verge of a physical and mental melt down. But Drift had come to him willingly when he asked, so he wasn't too far gone quite yet.

"Get in the washrack, youngling. We'll get you sorted." Ratchet gestured with his non-dominant hand towards the shower, walking his mate slowly onto the tiled surface. The coolness of the tile should help lower his mate's overall temperature quickly. He turned the solvent on to a low and soothing setting, pinging the lights to dim slightly.

The solvent was not hot, it was barely warm, so Drift shivered under the spray as it stole his heat away, beginning to return his frame to normal operating parameters. Ratchet relaxed slightly when Drift left the red zone and returned to a safer temperature. That was the problem with high performance frames, they sped up and overheated quickly. Utilitarian frames like his own took ages to overheat.

"There you go, Drift. Let yourself cool down nice and slowly, okay? You've managed to work yourself into quite a snit." Ratchet murmured to the mech, standing to the side of the solvent stream so he wouldn't get spots on his plating.

Drift's optics met his own, shame brimming in their depths. Ratchet gently touched the side of Drift's helm, tracing up to his finial, which was caressed with all the love and care he could muster. Emotional outbursts from this mech would not be punished. Primus knew it had taken this long for Drift to allow any emotion to break through the surface. He would need time to learn to cope appropriately.

After a few long moments of gentle touches and soft murmurs, Ratchet turned off the solvent and walked Drift out of the washrack stall and leaned him up against the counter.

"I'm sorry," Drift said, his optics dim and cast towards the floor. "That was uncalled for. I just want us to be like the normal couples. I thought you didn't want to touch me because I was dirty or something."

"You're no more dirty than I am, youngling. You think you're the only one who had ever had to compromise their morals to get through a rough patch? Pit, I practically begged Pharma on my knees not to leave me. I thought that if he left me, it meant that I was the problem."

Ratchet sunk to the floor at Drift's pedes, ignoring both his mate's assertion that he shouldn't be on the floor and the creaking of his knees. A soft polishing cloth manifested in his hand from his subspace and he went to work on the white plating, content for the moment to touch his mate in a way that made the both of them relax.

Drift's hand twitched before he too began caressing the medic's chevron, enjoying the groan of pleasure from the elder mech.

Both of their vents hitched when the medic ran his polishing cloth over Drift's codpiece, but Ratchet continued on his journey, making sure that his mate was bright and shiny. That way, Drift also had enough time to center himself a little better, returning to a calmness that better suited him.

"There we go. Help me up, will you?" Ratchet asked as he polished as high as he could reach.

Drift gently pulled the much heavier mech to his pedes, allowing the weight to settle under his shoulder with ease. Ratchet may have massed more than he did, but Drift was no lightweight despite the look of his frame.

Their lips met gently but firmly, both needing to feel the connection between them. Solid, warm metal slid under hands, small groans and whimpers echoed through the empty chamber. Drift could get Ratchet hot with just a look, with no need for touches. But tonight Ratchet needed to make a point.

The medic's lips whispered against Drift's as he spoke, "Get on the berth. Center yourself for a long session."

Drift nodded, turning towards the berth room, and he jumped a little when Ratchet's hand firmly smacked his aft.

A hint of a smirk colored Drift's expression as he lay on the berth.

Damn mech knew exactly how to pose himself on the berth to get Ratchet's engine revving. Face and chassis pressed into the soft padding, one knee pulled up slightly, parting his thighs just enough to see his codpiece from behind. Tease.

Ratchet walked across the berthroom towards a set of inset drawers to one side of the large space. Keying in his specific code, the drawers beeped obligingly and slid out from the wall. All manner of false spikes and other interface accessories gleamed under the lights.

The medic hummed, turning to glance at the white mech laying so tantalizingly on his berth. Drift had turned his helm so that he could peek at what Ratchet was doing.

With a small smile gracing his features, Ratchet picked up the biggest false spike in his collection and held it up to the light, inspecting the girth and length. He ran his hand along the soft but firm texture, so much like a real spike, but far too cold to be mistaken for anything other than a toy.

Drift let out a small whine before burying his faceplate further into the berth. The sleek mech loved to be stretched past the comfort point, to feel every small ripple and contour of a spike in his valve.

But Ratchet merely shook his helm and placed the large spike back into the drawer, taking his time surveying his collection. Two can tease.

A smaller spike was pulled from the drawer, examined and put back. Another whine of need erupted from the mech behind him. Seduction always started with the processor, not that most of the young mechs and femmes on this ship knew that. Most wanted to "mount up" as quickly as possible. The elder mecha knew better. A partner could get worked up just through thought and teasing without even touching. And Drift needed to know that touching was a sacred gift between the two of them alone.

Ratchet pretended to survey the rest of his collection while he actually contacted Rodimus and First Aid, letting them know that he and Drift were not to be disturbed. He cut the comm link before Rodimus could celebrate too much. Insufferable young mechs.

Drift moaned at near full volume, pumping his hips into the berth and his helm shaking back and forth rhythmically.

Now, the medic had eons of self control to fall back on, and it was a slagging good thing. A mech with less control would have abandoned all pretense of lessons and simply fragged the younger speedster right then and there.

Ratchet wrapped himself in an ironclad will and ignored the mech making a spectacle of himself on the berth. After all the slag about not touching, bursting in here and being a drama queen, there he was making himself out to be quite touchable. But no, Ratchet reminded himself that one of the white mech's main complaints was that the medic only touched him when they were actively fragging.

A sleek black rope made of organic materials favored by the Nebulans was pulled from the drawer and thrown over a red and white shoulder. A shuddering moan answered the motion, and an equally sleek black gag followed, and a spreader bar.

"Don't you dare overload, you bad thing," Ratchet's voice still sounded strong, at least. "Don't make me mess about in your programming. I'll lock it all down."

All motion behind him immediately ceased. Bless the members of the Circle of Light for teaching Drift the values of self control. It certainly made their berthroom play much more gratifying in the long run.

One more item was surreptitiously slipped into the medic's subspace, before Drift could get a look at it.

The drawer beeped and slid back into the wall, becoming seamless once again. For several long moments, blue optics met across the room and had a silent conversation. This misunderstanding had gone too far and too fast. Now was the time to reestablish the ground rules of their relationship.

"Are you centered now, love?" Ratchet asked gently, not wanting to start without making sure that his mech was well prepared mentally and physically.

"Well enough. I want you. I want to feel you again." Drift's voice was staticky, rough and incredibly sexy. He sounded very similar to when Ratchet used his mouth a little too rough. But it often couldn't be helped - the mech was much too good at giving pleasure and it was hard to stop when he needed to.

"What's your safe word, Drifter?" The pet name slid off his glossa easily, knowing that this was the only place it was allowed to be uttered.

"Magnus." Drift deadpanned, knowing that it was the only word they could trust him not to use in the heat of the moment. Drift was not overly fond of the Magnus. He would have to think about the word, but Magnus was always on the periphery of his thoughts. And not just because the mech was screwing his best friend. The Magnus was always waiting in the wings for Drift to slip up. It was exhausting for the constantly chipper mech.

"Very good, sweetspark. I need you to be very relaxed. Let me know if anything hurts or if you need an adjustment. Remember your safe word, and our comm links will remain on all session." Ratchet recited, like he always did with the high strung mecha in his berth.

At the speedster's nod, large and strong hands made quick work of trussing up the smaller mech. Black rope wound seductively around white plating, sliding gently rather than pulling tightly. Ratchet liked to restrain his berth partners, but hated buffing out scratches afterwards. There was an art to restraint, and he wanted to be the master.

The rope was about twice as long as the speedster, so Ratchet was more decorative than he would have been with a larger partner. The rope glided against the plating of his mate's wrists and forearms, pulling the limbs behind his body but not placing tension on the joints. It then wound around his belly, taking a few loops above and below his codpiece, but not close enough to stimulate his spike or valve. A diamond pattern was used to decorate white thighs, down past shin guards before ending at the bottoms of Drift's pedes.

"Do you need anything adjusted?" Ratchet asked, still running his hands over pristine plating, taking a few high resolution photos of his trussed up mate for lonelier nights.

"Can you loosen my left wrist just a little? It's pinching a line and I'm losing some neural feedback." Drift sounded so calm and looked just as peaceful. It was utterly adorable to see the fully grown warrior look and act like a youngling. Warmth that had nothing to do with his growing arousal flooded the medic's systems.

His fingers made quick work of redistributing the rope to give Drift slightly more room in his wrists.

Once the ropes were comfortable and Drift was purring contentedly, his field warm and safe, Ratchet gently spread his legs and attached the spreader bar at the younger mech's knee joints. The cuffs for his joints were nicely padded and very comfortable, but medic protocols never truly fade, and Ratchet checked the tightness anyways. Then he manipulated each leg, to ensure that Drift had full articulation of his hips. Motion was encouraged, but he wouldn't be able to close his legs and hide.

Once Ratchet had satisfied his core programming that his mate was perfectly safe and ready to play, he took a few moments to stretch his own limbs and back. Just because he wasn't tied up didn't mean that he couldn't also become sore during this.

"Alright, Drifter. We seem to be ready," Ratchet slid a hand down pristine white dorsal plating, gently rubbing whenever he ran into a section of rope. "Last bit now and then we can really start."

The sleek gag was eagerly accepted by the white mecha, who had been long since rewarded for his silence. Nothing could get Ratchet to end a session early like the sounds of Drift begging him for...well, anything. Fingers, glossa, valve, spike. The mech wasn't particularly picky in his pursuit of pleasure.

"Is the gag okay?" Ratchet asked, running one finger under the straps on either side of the white helm, making sure that it had enough slack to be comfortable but wouldn't be easily spit out. The white mech nodded, pushing his helm finials into Ratchet's warm hands, seeking that warm touch.

"Via comms, if you please, little one."

::It's so good, Ratch.::

"Excellent. Do not speak to me unless you need to use your safe word," Ratchet smiled at the deep groan from the other mech. "No, no, sweetspark. You have no right to demand that I touch you at all. Not after the little drama fit you had in the washrack. After all, I apparently only touch you when I'm fragging you, right?" Ratchet's voice dropped an octave, sounding dangerously close to his Chief Medical Officer tones.

It just made Drift shudder. That voice made him hot like no one else's ever could. The voice that first told him he was worth something, that he could be something to be proud of. He could happily deactivate listening to that voice. The only thing better than that voice was that touch. And now it seemed as though his mate was more than passingly upset about his snit in the washrack. Drift cursed himself. He'd meant to go about this in a more adult manner, to sit down and talk about it. But instead, he'd rushed ahead and let his emotions rule him. And now his mate was going to set him straight yet again. Just like in Dead End, but hopefully with more spike and less disappointed speeches.

"I'm in quite the pickle, as the humans would say, Drifter. See, you made me feel like a pile of slag for only touching you when we frag. And now look at you, begging me to touch you and frag you. But if I touch you now, I'm no better than you make me out to be." Ratchet pulled his hands off Drift's helm finials, ignoring the whine of disappointment from the sleek mech.

Instead of touching his mate as he wanted, the surgeon calmly walked away from the drooling and panting mecha and simply dropped into one of the seats at the side of the berth. He picked up an abandoned data pad and quickly locked the contents. He didn't want to accidentally ruin a medical file, he just wanted to look as nonchalant as possible.

"I have so much work to catch up on. I used to be efficient before you came along. Now look at all the filing and commentary I need to get done. Why, Drifter, you should be ashamed of yourself, taking petty arguments and blowing them out of proportion. We are high ranking officers, and that's conduct unbecoming an officer. Maybe I should turn you on to the dear Captain. He'd have a creative solution to the problem, I'm sure of it." Ratchet glanced up from his rambling to check on the young mech. Just because Drift hadn't even come close to using his safe word didn't mean that he was still in a safe headspace.

Drift had stopped thrusting into the berth, his helm turned towards Ratchet and his optics dimmed. His chassis and limbs were still completely relaxed, no sign of any tension in the cables. He was right where Ratchet needed him to be - silent, contemplative, but not overly emotional. Perfect.

"Next time we have this kind of problem, I expect you to speak to me like an adult, youngling. None of this bottling things up. I am your chosen mate. I want to care for you, physically and emotionally. But I can't do that until you start confiding in me. Your hopes, fears, insecurities, joys. All of it. And I will do the same with you. Let's start with hopes and joys."

Ratchet let his optics drop back to the datapad in his lap, counting down a few klicks. When Drift remained blessedly silent and still, the medic rose from his seat, taking a moment to stretch with his hands over his helm. Drift's optics flowed over his body like a starving mech looking at a fresh cube. The white mech's vents and fans both came alive instantly, and the temperature in the room rose several degrees. Young mechs. For better or worse, they were always easy to rouse.

"I'm sure you understand that my ethical coding is tied up in knots at the moment," Ratchet had to fight the smile threatening to break through. His coding had no such problems, but it was fun to tease his lover. "I want to touch you very badly, but now I feel guilty if I do. But look at you, sweetspark. Drooling all over my berth, and I can already smell the lubricant and ozone coming off you. How wanton."

Drift moaned past the gag again, hunching his shoulders into the berth. It was more than gratifying to see that the speedster was open to being lightly punished and reflective, but then just as eager for pleasure. Positive reinforcement was almost too easy with this youngling.

Ratchet approached the berth, noting that the other mech's ventilations were coming hard and fast, and his core temperature was elevated. Before he could stop himself, a medical scan was initiated and done. All of Ratchet's past partners had been disgusted by his need to scan them in the middle of making love. They didn't understand his need to see his partners as healthy as possible. Drift though, he never seemed to mind. He just dutifully sat through the scan and pinged Ratchet, a non-verbal signal that he was okay and still aware of his surroundings.

Once satisfied, Ratchet decided that it was time to move things along. He wasn't making things up when he said he could smell Drift's lubricant. Pit, at this point, he could see lavender lubricant spilling out from beneath the valve cover. It was smearing across the mech's thighs and making streaks across the bare metal of his berth. What a beautiful sight.

"No spikes this time, Drift. Keep it down or I'll lock it up," Ratchet chuckled at the strangled growl before continuing, "Lift your hips, sweetspark, brace on your knees. That's it. This will only take a moment. Tighten your core, don't just use your joints. You're not young enough to keep getting away with abusing your frame forever."

As he spoke, Ratchet unsubspaced the item he had hidden from Drift, taking his time in showing its every angle to the bound mecha. For his part, Drift looked confused and frustrated, his optics overly bright and even more oral lubricants pooling at the corners of his intake.

"Oh, goodness. You have no idea what this is, do you? Oh, Drifter, we're going to have a good time tonight." The item in question was about the size of Ratchet's palm, and was made of a matte material. It didn't catch the light well, but Drift could see that it was covered in what looked like small spines. It was impossible to tell if they were sharp or dull from this distance, but they were short and covered the surface. Drift had never seen anything like it.

"This, little one, is one of my favorite toys for naughty mechs who don't want to be touched," The medic's sensitive hands placed the item in the space where Drift's valve had been grinding, using the purple lubricant stripes as a guide. "Go ahead and drop back down, slowly. It's magnetized to the berth. You can't move it."

Drift settled cautiously back onto the berth, hovering over the item for a long moment. He met Ratchet's optics for a long, questioning moment. When he nodded, Drift gently brushed the item with his valve cover. To his surprise, the texture was not hard or stiff at all. It was almost as if the article was filled with fluid. It would give just a little, but then return to its original roundness when he took the pressure away.

Deliberately, he slid back his valve cover and allowed the backflow of lubricant slide down his thighs and drip onto the toy itself. Next to him, Ratchet's engine gave a strong rev, but the medic was steadfastly keeping his promise that he wasn't going to touch any part of Drift. At least for the time being. He'd crack sooner or later and forgive Drift. He did every time.

With a touch less caution this time, Drift let his hips down and ground onto the toy. The small spines felt so amazing on his exterior node. His optics whited out and the only sound he could hear was static. A few moments later, he returned to his body.

Ratchet was chuckling, but his vents were pouring superheated air. Distantly, Drift realized that they were going to have to use the humidifier tonight, because the dry heat was going to kill his poor plants.

"Like that, do you? I can electrify it, too. For when you get used to the sensation. Don't worry, you'll know when I turn it on. No need to whine at me like that. Overload when you like, pretty. You just won't overload at my touch. But the toy is happy to have you." Ratchet allowed his hand to hover temptingly directly over Drift's lower back plating, as though he was going to guide his movements.

The next surge of his hips drew a gurgle from his throat, focused so intently on overloading. Drift was never one to deny himself pleasure after vorns and vorns of pleasuring others, and letting Ratchet wind him up like us was making him crazy. But the medic always ripped the most intense overloads from his frame and cuddled him into oblivion after.

Chasing his overload without Ratchet touching him was proving harder than he had ever thought. He was worked up beyond belief, pouring lubricant over a new highly stimulating toy, but he couldn't quite reach the tipping point. With his hands caught behind his back and his knees spread, the only thing he could do was wiggle and hump against the toy more furiously. The berth already had long white paint scrapes to go with the lubricant spills, but nothing was working. Maybe if Ratchet would talk to him or touch him, instead of just watching, he could cum.

Just as he reached the point of opening his comm link to beg his lover, one of Ratchet's hands finally landed on his backplating and gave a push. Only this time when his node ground against the toy, pleasure more intense than anything he had ever felt jolted into his frame and seemed to travel up his valve and into his ceiling node. He did the only thing he could. He screamed and let the overload take him.

"Drift? Drift, come back to me. We aren't done," Ratchet's voice whispered in his audio, warm hands tracing his shoulders down to his bound hands over and over. Drift lifted his helm, noting that he was still on his stomach, but the toy had been removed. "There you are. Did you have a nice trip, wherever you went? You know it's rude to not invite your mate." A large hot spike nudged his valve gently but insistently, sliding only an inch or so in before slipping back out.

"Am I allowed to touch you again? I know you have deep problems with me touching you only during interface. I don't want to do anything you aren't comfortable with, sweetspark." Ratchet taunted him, his bulk pushing the sleeker mech into the berth. The heavier medic frame was draped over him, comforting and warm. It would be so easy to slip into recharge like this, if not for the gentle slip of a spike over his much too sensitive node. A hiss escaped him, jumping to try and get away from the stimulation. Ratchet's answering chuckle told him all he needed to know - his mate was toying with him yet again.

His valve clenched down on nothing in response to the teasing on his node and Drift pumped his hips back and up, wiggling to try and get that spike to slide home.

"Is that permission?" Ratchet asked, gently nipping a helm finial, clever fingers finding sensitive gaps in his abdominal armor.

Drift nearly screamed again; enough teasing! He thrashed under his mate's bulk, giving his frustration a physical outlet.

And Ratchet responded by sliding his spike all the way into the willing and wet valve, stopping to grind himself against his mate's aft. Small happy mewling noises escaped Drift as Ratchet started a slow and thoughtful rhythm, being careful not to press his mate into the berth too much, for respect of his sensitive exterior node.

The slick sounds of a well wanting valve filled the room, along with the harsh vents of two mecha. Ratchet threw his helm back, struggling for control. He wanted to make this amazing for his mate, wanted to be the best Drift had ever had. His thrusts were becoming jagged and labored as he fought his spike for control.

::Please, Ratchet. I want you to spill inside me::

Ratchet didn't even have time to be upset with his mate for breaking the rules. Transfluid erupted from his spike in thick and hot spurts. He knew when they hit Drift's ceiling node because he would jerk and moan seconds after Ratchet felt a jet erupt. It was the most erotic thing he had ever seen or felt. A few more small thrusts and grinds against the shapely aft and Ratchet was spent.

With practiced movements, the medic undid the gag and bindings, letting the rope and spreader bar hit the floor, but the gag joined the toy in his subspace. Slowly, he helped Drift stretch his shoulders and hips, letting the limbs get used to having full articulation yet again. He took a few moments to massage the sword mech's hands, paying attention to each and every tiny joint in his wrist and fingers.

When Drift's optics started brightening back to their normal coloration, Ratchet got off the filthy berth and pulled the speedster with him.

"Come on, we need to give the drones a chance to clean this mess, and we could both use another wipe down."

Drift allowed himself to be pulled into the washrack yet again, squashing the shame that threatened to crop up. Ratchet loved him so much, and took such good care of him, and Drift repaid that with petty arguments.

"Up on the counter with you." The medic ordered, wetting a polishing cloth in the shower before wringing it out and cleansing his spike thoroughly. He was the most stunning mech Drift had ever seen. Well built, solid and sturdy, everything he wasn't. Ratchet rinsed the cloth well before attacking several white streaks on his front. Once satisfied, he walked back to Drift and eased the cloth between his legs and cleaned out the backlog of fluids in his valve before moving on to any red scrapes he could find.

"Come on," He tugged Drift to his pedes, "Let's get the energon off the heater and have a chat about this, okay?"

"I'd love that, Ratch. I love you, and I'm sorry that I was so petty about this. You can touch me whenever you're most comfortable."

* * *

 

Three orns later in an Officer's meeting, Ratchet laid his hand on Drift's bracer while he leaned over to get another cube of energon at the center of the table.

Five orns after that, during movie night, Ratchet pulled Drift down to the floor and let him lean against his legs for the entire movie. Drift couldn't help the happy purr that escaped. They were going to be just fine.


End file.
